


day twenty one: hugs

by Hannah (hannahoftheinternet)



Series: HartmonFest 2019 [21]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: 5 Things, Angst, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hartmon Fest 2019, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Cisco Ramon, POV Third Person, Post-Coital Cuddling, Present Tense, Protectiveness, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 10:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18093020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahoftheinternet/pseuds/Hannah
Summary: Five different hugs for five different parts of their relationship.





	day twenty one: hugs

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: this fic talks about sex, death, and alcohol.

“Don’t you dare die.” Hartley’s hands cup his face. “Don’t you dare, Cisco.”

“I don’t plan on it. If I die, who will make you coffee when you pull an all-nighters?” Cisco jokes, trying to muster a laugh or at least a chuckle, but he gets nothing. He doesn’t know what they’ll find on Earth-2, but he knows that something bad is going to happen. Something bad usually happens.

“I’m dead serious,” Hartley tells him, and they both go quiet.  _ Dead _ wasn’t the right word to use.

“Seriously, Hart, I’ll be fine. We jump in, find Jesse, and jump out. No one will ever know we were there.” Hartley just looks at him, and Cisco is about to ask if he’s okay, when Hartley hugs him. Hartley has never been one for public displays of affection, which means that he must be  _ really _ worried. Cisco squeezes back, trying to radiate reassuring energy as Hartley presses his face into his shoulder. “I will be fine.”

“I can hear your heartbeat,” Hartley says into his hair. “You’re just as worried as I am.”

Cisco laughs, but it comes out sounding a little hollow. “So you admit you’re worried?”

“How ridiculous. Why should I be worried about my own boyfriend?”

“I’ll buy you a postcard.”

***

“Jesus,” Cisco gasps, flopping back on the pillow and letting his eyes close. “I think I might pass out.”

“Feel free,” says Hartley, and Cisco musters just enough energy to smack his boyfriend’s chest feebly. He feels his hair with his other hand. It’s damp, just like every other part of him. The room smells strongly of sweat and he loves it. In his head, he calls the after-sex sensations the  _ proof of love, _ but he’ll never tell Hartley that. It’s corny, even for him.

“Come here.” Cisco pulls the bedsheets that Hartley is laying on (not under) gently, forcing him to move. “Cuddle.”

“I’m boiling,” Hartley complains even as he moves closer and presses against him. “I’ll die of heat exhaustion.”

“Mmm, that’s the price you pay.” Cisco buries his face in Hartley’s shoulder. “You smell good.” He does smell good, like salt and his eucalyptus soap.

Hartley shifts, trying to get comfortable. The still-burning light behind him gives him an angelic halo. “How sweet.”

“Are you always this snarky after sex?” Cisco demands. “What happened to all your romantic crap?”

“I used up all my romance getting you to make that face,” comes the smooth reply.

“What face?”

Hartley demonstrates, and Cisco whacks him lightly again.

***

When Cisco gets home, it’s around one in the morning and he is a little tipsy. He had a few margaritas at the party. That explains why his lips feel sort of raw and tingly--the salt on the rims of the glasses.

Untying his converse would take too long, so he just collapses on the couch. Hartley does the same into his corner of the soft blue sofa and groans. “I had too many daiquiris.”

“Feel that.” Cisco snaps his fingers and points vaguely off into space. They’re both lightweights. “Turn on the TV; it’s too quiet in here.”

“That’s what you think,” Hartley says, but he flicks on the TV without comment. There’s a nature documentary on.

_ Wow. Look at that lizard run. That’s a fast lizard. That’s Barry as a lizard. _

Okay, he’s more than a little tipsy. But it’s okay. Between all the superheroing and the sciencing and the saving the world, he deserves it.

He also deserves a hug, so he climbs across the couch and hugs his boyfriend tightly. Hartley reciprocates, pressing kisses to Cisco’s cheek and jaw. If Cisco is a disaster when he’s had too much to drink, Hartley is a romantic. Go figure.

***

The tears keep falling. He hasn’t stopped crying in two weeks, but coming back from the funeral is so much worse than anything else that has happened. He’s stained a wet patch on the front of his shirt and it should be uncomfortable, but he doesn’t really feel anything.

He’s not even really crying anymore. No sobs wrack his body, his hands have stopped shaking. Tears just pour down his face, and he doesn’t try to stop them.

It’s storming outside, so he’s soaked when he finally gets into the apartment. Hartley had to unlock the door; Cisco couldn’t be bothered.

Now Hartley throws the umbrella on the stand and locks the door again, and Cisco finds that he can’t support himself anymore. He sits on the cold wet tile, fruitlessly swipes tears off his face. Hartley sits with him, not saying anything, and Cisco leans against him and says, “Thanks for holding the umbrella,” because there’s so much he wants to say, but he just can’t.

Hartley understands, and he doesn’t say anything about it when Cisco wraps his arms around him and cries into his shoulder. Soon, he’s dehydrated and his tears feel gross drying on his face, but he doesn’t move. Sitting on the floor, hugging Hartley, he feels better than he has in weeks.

***

One of Hartley’s friends from the former physics department of S.T.A.R. Labs is the last to leave, and Cisco can tell that Hartley  _ really _ wants the guy to finish exclaiming about how awesome they are for being gay and just  _ go. _

Finally, Hartley says, “Good night, Don,” closes the door, and locks it, leaving poor Don in the middle of his speech.

“Thank God,” Cisco says, knowing but not really caring that he’s being rude. Their apartment is a disaster: cups and paper plates strewn everywhere, empty bowls and platters of food covering the table, and someone’s forgotten scarf draped over the back of the sofa. “Do you think we can clean all this up tomorrow?”

“The guacamole remnants will go brown,” says Hartley, grimacing. Hartley has a thing about brown avocados and avocado byproducts. Cisco concedes this, and they fall into their usual washing-up routine. This isn’t the first time they’ve hosted a get-together for the purpose of catching up, and they always say it’s their last time hosting it.

“We’re never hosting a party ever again,” Cisco says, dusting cracker crumbs into the trash can. Hartley puts down the stack of paper plates he was holding and hugs Cisco so tightly that he’s sure his rib will crack. “I love you too, but what are you doing?”

“I’m glad I’m marrying you,” Hartley says, and they both make the obnoxious  _ aww _ noise they have reserved for gooey romantic utterances, but Cisco couldn’t be happier. He’s standing in his disaster of a kitchen in his tiny apartment with his fiance. What’s not to love?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just a big disaster gay who loves writing angst, but has to end things with fluff.
> 
> Comments are a writer's best friend!


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